


Run boy run (This world is not made for you)

by maxiswriting



Series: Things We Lost In The Fire - Atlantis AU [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: (sorry guys), A little bit of angst, Atlantis AU, Gen, Implied Character Death, Logan is just done with the museum's bullshit, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, everybody is an idiot and he got no time for them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 12:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15685503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxiswriting/pseuds/maxiswriting
Summary: When they finally hang up, Logan puts back the receiver, barely containing his irritation. He’s a linguist, a researcher, probably one of the most intelligent and resourceful men this museum has to offer –and he’s not saying it out of vanity or narcissism. It’s a fact, a certainty, something as obvious as the colour of the sky or the presence of oxygen in the atmosphere.He should not be stuck in a little office –if it could even be called one- in the basement of the museum, forced to spend all day answering angry calls about the absence of warm water in the rest of the building and taking care of an old and battered boiler. He deserves to do more, hewantsto do more.Hopefully, today he’ll finally be able to get out of there for good. One way or another.





	Run boy run (This world is not made for you)

**Author's Note:**

> In which Logan is nothing like the original Milo Tatch and the museum's board of directors barely avoids getting murdered by an angry researcher, probably.  
>   
> (Also, I hurt myself writing the first part of this chapter. You're welcome.)

“Dad?”

Startled, William looks up from his desk, eyes rimmed red with fatigue behind his glasses. He’s been working almost nonstop since morning, analyzing and translating photos of mysterious artefacts and old manuscripts over and over again. But the only thing he seems to have gotten out of it are a sore back and a mess of papers and documents that’ll be a pain in the arse to put back in order.

William immediately spots his son, his head peeking from behind the studio’s door. Smiling, he motions him closer, stretching his arms out to try and remove some of the muscle pain. Silently, Logan enters the room and shuts the door, before padding across the thick carpet covering the floor to his father’s side.

“Hey Lo,” his father murmurs, picking him up and gently placing him on his lap, “what’re you doing still up? I thought you had gone to bed a while ago.”

Still silent, Logan quietly scoots closer to his father’s chest, holding his teddy bear –Mr Crofters, a gift from his mother before she passed away- in his arms. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles sleepily, barely biting back a yawn, “felt lonely.”

William sighs, leaning back into his chair. “Sorry kid,” he apologizes, idly combing a hand though his son’s hair, “I lost track of time. Papa’s got a lot of work to do.”

“ It’s late though. Papa needs to sleep.” Logan protests, yawning. “You can do work tomorrow.”

“Just five more minutes.” Tries his father, thinking about all the material he still has to study and that old Norwegian shield with those strange inscription that might just be the final piece he needs to complete the puzzle –he’s so close, William knows it. He can’t stop now, not after all the sacrifices and closed doors he has had to endure in his life. He’ll show them, shove the proof right onto their faces if he needs to, he’ll prove that he had been right all along even if it kills him-

Logan grabs onto his arm, shaking his head. “That’s five minutes too long!” he complains, his face scrunched up into that stubborn pout that reminds William so much of Sherry- Logan’s mother, his partner, the one that had believed in him even when everybody else had decided to turn their back on him. “Sleep is important, you taught me that.”

Sighing, William throws one last, longing look at his papers, scattered messily on his desk. He knows his son and he’s aware that, at this point, the kid won’t give up until they’re both in bed, sleeping.

“Alright, alright you little rascal.” He finally concedes, shaking his head with a defeated smile on his face, “I swear you act so much like your mother it scares me sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

Picking him up, William chuckles. “She had to barge into my studio almost every night, because I never paid attention to how late it was,” he explains, ruffling his son’s hair, “and if I tried to protest, she would literally pester me or even start dragging me out by force until I caved and agreed to go to sleep.”

“Really?!” Logan giggles, sleepiness momentarily forgotten, “can you tell me more about her?” he asks, almost tentatively.

William smiles, kissing his son’s head. “Of course, kiddo.” He murmurs, closing the studio’s door behind them.

(Later, when Logan is finally asleep in his bed with Mr Crofters firmly clutched in his hold, William finds himself staring at his son with a melancholic smile on his face. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he gingerly picks up an old frame from the nightstand. From the photo, his wife smiles at him, as beautiful as he remembers her to be.

“I’ll prove them all wrong, Sherry,” he promises, “just you wait.”)

 

* * *

 

“-and that is why I firmly believe it is _our_ duty as men of science to do everything in our power to retrieve the Shepherd’s Journal and, finally, uncover the secret behind the myth of Atlantis and his mysterious power source.”

Silence falls, and Logan finally lets out a breath he hasn’t even realized he’s been holding. His stance relaxes, his shoulder slumping slightly, and he nods to himself. With a speech like this, only a fool would refuse his proposal.

Sadly, he’s very much aware of just how many fools are part of the museum’s board of directors.

Logan sighs, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it from those foolish thoughts –it doesn’t work, not completely, but he decides to ignore it. He has a presentation to give, an expedition to organize and a long lost civilisation to –hopefully- bring back to the light of day for everyone to see.

This time, Logan knows he’ll be able to convince the board. They asked for proof, for something that could really justify an expedition tasked with finding a place, until now, named only in legends and fairy tales. And he got it, the result of long nights spent researching facts, traducing old texts, and consulting his father’s notes and discoveries for new, interesting leads.

The only missing piece is the Shepherd’s Journal, buried somewhere on the southern coast of Iceland –not Ireland, as a very superficial translation had formerly stated. He often wonders how utterly stupid whoever originally deciphered it had had to be, to be able to confuse two letters so different like that.

However, that won’t be a problem for long. Once they finally manage to retrieve the Journal, it will be only a matter of time until they find Atlantis for good.

The phone suddenly rings, abruptly snapping Logan out of his thoughts. Groaning, he leans over the blackboard to grab the receiver, trying –and failing- to not get chalk on his shirt. “Cartography and Linguistics, Logan Sanders speaking. How may I be of help?”

On the other side of the line, an angry voice starts ranting –in a very crude and unnecessary manner, Logan notes while barely holding back an irritated sigh- about the absence of warm water and properly-working heating.

“Please remain in line for a few moments.” He answers, voice carefully neutral. Silently, Logan walks towards the boiler on the other side of the room and quickly turns a few valves, before hitting it with a nearby spanner.

“Is this more adequate?” he asks, grabbing the receiver once again. Logan listens quietly as whoever called yells at him some more, biting back a few choice words he would really like to share with them –he can’t get himself thrown out of the museum, not now that he’s so close to reaching his goal.

When they finally hang up, Logan puts back the receiver, barely containing his irritation. He’s a linguist, a researcher, probably one of the most intelligent and resourceful men this museum has to offer –and he’s not saying it out of vanity or narcissism. It’s a fact, a certainty, something as obvious as the colour of the sky or the presence of oxygen in the atmosphere.

He should not be stuck in a little office –if it could even be called one- in the basement of the museum, forced to spend all day answering angry calls about the absence of warm water in the rest of the building and taking care of an old and battered boiler. He deserves to do more, he _wants_ to do more.

Hopefully, today he’ll finally be able to get out of there for good. One way or another.

Glancing at the clock on the wall, Logan starts picking up all the papers and documents piled up on his desk, mentally listing off what he needs as he goes. Once he’s sure he has everything necessary for his presentation –he checks everything twice, just to be sure- he nods, takes a steadying breath and turns around, ready to climb the stairs that will take him out of the basement.

However, before he can get out his eyes land on an old frame on his desk, his parents smiling widely at him from the photo. Logan’s gaze softens, and he finds himself picking up the frame with a little, sad smile on his face.

“Mom, dad,” he murmurs, bittersweet melancholy swimming in his voice, “I’ll make it this time, just you wait.”

Suddenly, a strange “whoosh” sound attracts his attention, his gaze snapping to the pneumatic tube in the corner. Logan grabs the capsule, a little irritated at whoever thought it was a good idea to send him a communication now that he has a presentation to give. Then, he reads the notice, and his blood immediately runs cold.

_Dear Mr Sanders,_  
this is to inform you that your meeting today  
has been moved up form 4:30 pm to 3:30 pm.

“What?”

 He has barely managed to read the first notice, that another “whoosh” echoes in the otherwise silent basement. Logan is starting to have some idea of where this whole thing is going, and he doesn’t like it one bit. Slowly, he picks up the second capsule, hoping against hope to be wrong. But apparently, he’s not so lucky.

_Dear Mr Sanders,_  
due to your absence the board has voted to reject your proposal.  
Have a nice weekend,  
Mr Harcourt’s office.

Logan stares at the notice, eyes wide in disbelief. Then, surprise is replaced by anger, boiling in his veins like liquid fire.

“This is enough!”

 

* * *

 

“Mr Harcourt!” Logan calls, marching down the halls of the museum. The few people in the area are quick to step aside and let him pass, intimidated by the downright murderous expression on the young man’s face.

On the other side of the hall, Mr Harcourt visibly startles, eyes wide in surprise –it’s obvious he and the other members of the board thought they could get out of the museum before Logan could find any of them. He quickly pulls himself out of his shock tough, and doesn’t waste any time in bolting down the corridor towards the exit.

But Logan is a man on a mission, and he quickly reaches the man at the entrance of the museum, where a carriage is waiting for him –the fact that Mr Harcourt is actually quite short, and his quick pace is nothing compared to Logan’s long and rage-driven strides, helps quite a lot.

“Mr Harcourt!” Logan repeats, grabbing the door of the carriage to stop him from closing it, “I demand an explanation!”

Mr Harcourt sighs, clearly irritated. “Look Mr Sanders, this museum funds scientific expeditions based on facts, not legends and folklore.”

“Atlantis is not a legend!” Logan bristles, barely containing himself from grabbing the collar of the other man’s coat, “There is more than enough evidence to prove it! and if you would just listen to me-”

“Enough!” Mr Harcourt suddenly exclaims, interrupting Logan’s rant, “You have a lot of potential, Logan. Don’t throw it all away chasing fairy tales like your father did.”

At that Logan freezes, body completely still. Then, he suddenly relaxes, and when he looks at the other man once again his expression is unreadable, completely devoid of any emotion.

“If this is really what you think, then I won’t waste anymore of your time.” He says, reaching into his pocket and slapping an envelope on Mr Harcourt’s face.

“W-What is this?!” the man stammers.

“My letter of resignation.” Logan explains, voice neutral. “Since it appears none of you idiots have enough common sense to listen to a proposal sustained by facts and a meticulous research, there is no reason for me to stay here and continue to be your little slave down in the basement. If you won’t fund this expedition, I will find another way to retrieve the Journal.”

“You can’t be serious! You’ll flush your career down the toilet!” argues Mr Harcourt, clearly outraged. But Logan ignores him, slamming the carriage’s door shut.

“We’ll see who’ll have the last laugh, Mr Harcourt.” He replies, before turning around and leaving the museum once and for all.

He’ll find another way to get to Atlantis, come hell or high water.

**Author's Note:**

> And the second part is out! Let me know if you like it, and follow me on [Tumblr](https://max-is-tired.tumblr.com) to hear me scream some more about my favourite boys!


End file.
